With the Fallen Ones dogging his every step, however, it would take him an entire mortal lifetime just to reach Alex—and by then, with his memory of her fading a little more with each rise and fall of the sun despite his best efforts to hold onto it, there might be nothing left to salvage. Nothing he could do.
He eyed his present tormentor, now circling just out of arm’s reach. Despite what the Fallen One may have heard about Aramael’s vulnerability, thousands of years of caution apparently died hard. Aramael was, after all, one of the select few angels capable of imprisoning Fallen Ones in Limbo. Or had been one of those angels until Mittron orchestrated his downfall.
Now, however, he was wingless, powerless, reduced to the same physical strength as a mortal, and sentenced to an eternity of having the crap kicked out of him by his former prey. And, worse, to watching from the sidelines as Heaven and Hell went to war.
He gritted his teeth and rolled his shoulders to ease the tension building there. It wasn’t in his nature to lie down and play dead, so he’d fight back as best he could. He might even land a few hits of his own. But if the three previous encounters were anything to go by, he didn’t expect to remain standing for long.
The Fallen One stepped in with a jab. Aramael blocked him and struck a glancing blow on his shoulder—a blow that, even to him, felt feeble. The Fallen One smirked.
A feral cat, scrounging through a pile of garbage, slinked out of sight behind a row of battered cans. Aramael braced himself. His enemy could take him down in a heartbeat, but he knew from experience it wouldn’t happen that way. There would be pain involved first. A lot of pain.
The Fallen One’s knuckles connected with his cheekbone and a starburst exploded behind Aramael’s eyes. Reeling back, he staggered and shook his head, trying to locate his aggressor through flashes of light. Another hit, this one to the gut. He grunted and doubled over, staying on his feet through sheer willpower. He would not fall this easily. A fist drove into his kidney and agony sheared through him, obliterating his resolve. His lungs sucked for air as all sense of his enemy’s whereabouts disappeared. Dropped to his hands and knees, he waited for the next blows. They came quickly. Kicks, now, from which no amount of curling up could protect him.
Lying in the alley’s grunge, he endured the punishment. Grimly, resolutely, and with growing bitterness. He might not be able to stop Mittron, but if it took him the rest of his existence, the Highest Seraph would somehow answer for this. For the pain and humiliation; for the loss of what Aramael had so briefly found with Alexandra Jarvis; and for the treason that had brought it all to bear.
A booted foot crashed into Aramael’s skull, sending a wash of red across his vision. Awareness receded down the same darkening tunnel into which sound faded and sensation died away.
Deep inside, the life spark of the weakened vessel he had become snuffed out yet again.
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Acknowledgements
So very many people made this book possible. These are the ones who deserve special mention.
To my husband, Pat, for his love and unflagging support...and for his willingness to put up with the sometimes wild mood swings that accompany the creative process. My world is brighter for having him in it.
To my daughters, Chloe, Emilie, and Mikhaila, for inspiring me to lead by example...and for leading me with the examples they themselves have set. My world is brighter for having them in it, too.
To my friend Maureen Daly, for the wonderful kitchen chats that fanned a spark of imagination and led me to delve deeper into angel lore in search of the many stories that became the backbone of this series.
To Isabelle Michaud, RCMP officer extraordinaire, for her enthusiasm and the many reads she did to make sure I had my details right...and for inspiring much of who Alex is in the story.
To Natalie, the creative genius behind Kanaxa and the kickass covers that grace my books.
To my writing buddy Marie Bilodeau, who has picked me up out of the writer doldrums (and kicked my butt) more times than I can count, challenged me to do more and better every day, and shared countless laughs over countless cups of coffee (and mojitos).
And finally, to you, dear reader, for picking up this book and letting me introduce you to the world of the Grigori Legacy. I hope you enjoy!
About the Author
Lydia M. Hawke is a writer possessed of both a light side and a dark one. On the dark side, she’s the author of the Grigori Legacy, an apocalyptic urban fantasy series about a hard-as-nails cop caught up in the war between Heaven and Hell. In her lighter moments, she writes romances (contemporary and suspense) as Linda Poitevin. And when she’s not plotting the world’s downfall or next great love story, she’s a wife, mom, friend, coffee snob, gardener, walker of a Giant Dog, keeper of many cats, and an avid food preserver. You know, just in case that whole Zombie Apocalypse thing really happens...
You can find Lydia hanging out on Facebook and her website (LydiaHawkeBooks.com), and you can join her newsletter for updates on new books.
Sins of the Angels: A Supernatural Thriller (Grigori Legacy Book 1) Page 32